Tuesday, January 11, 2011

90: Morning Fog

At the mountain house, he watches her through the window, her form ethereal like the floating shawls of morning fog, thinks, how he loves her.  Always, though, a chasm. In dream, his arms pass through her, unable to grasp flesh.  Nearby, a lake.  He fears she will walk into it.  One morning, she returns from her walk, hair and clothes drowned in water, her face erased.  He pulls her close, able to feel her, water pooling at their feet.

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